The Miracle of Mirth
by Cascade Waters
Summary: What does it take?  Loose sequel to 'Patience.'


The Miracle of Mirth

Firechild

Rated G

Disclaimer: Only one of them is mine.

Warning: Erm… I believe the current term is 'schmoop'?

A/N: Just a bit of fluff to take passion_heart's mind off of her sickies for a bit (and to answer an earlier request she'd dropped.)

She'd long since learned that he didn't like to be teased, or tickled, or in any way prodded or prompted to laugh. There'd been little in his life to justify humor, and most of what there was wouldn't qualify as mirth or joy or even satisfaction so much as a taste of darkness with a single corner turned up like a talon. She'd had to learn this lesson the anxious way, when a quest to make him laugh during the fledgling stages of their relationship had backfired rather spectacularly and she'd been left wondering if she could ever repair the damage. He'd forgiven her, and they'd learned to accept this difference in their characters—he'd even (rather uncomfortably) apologized for dampening her spirits, when he was aware of it and when he was not. Severus Snape simply was not a man to be amused.

And Hermione was okay with that. She'd learned to love and respect him for precisely who he was, and he had shown her the same care and honor. They still had points of disagreement and dischord, but neither of them was apt to jump into anything half-prepared, and the child growing inside of her was proof that both parents were completely invested in their marriage, as serious as only they could be.

So when, in the darkest hours of the night, Severus stopped his pacing when Daya beckoned from the doorway, her midwitch hat almost hiding her eyes, and he followed her into the bedroom to see his wife propped up against their pillows, and then his panicked eyes found the other midwitch holding a small bundle and discovered that his child was not screaming as newborns generally do because it—she, by the just-changed color of the receiving blanket—was cooing and chattering in an irresistible imitation of her mother, Severus Snape threw back his head and laughed, the midwitches were startled, Hermione came out of her light doze in shock, and the infant simply squirmed and chattered more loudly, one tiny fist appearing to wave. Fascination trumping new-father nerves, Snape stepped up to the midwitch and looked down at the impossibly tiny bundle of pink cloth and pale skin and pumping limbs and puckered rosebud lips, and had never thought that he'd be happy to see a pout, but he was—happy. And proud. He didn't even realize that he was holding out his arms until the midwitch deftly placed his child… his daughter… into his arms, subtly encouraging him to lift one arm just *so* to support the warm little head that, he saw as her wiggling sprang a bit of it from its blanket cocoon, was fuzzy with what promised to be wild black coils. He gently fingered one curl, wondering at its softness, and then felt the other tiny fist bump against his hand, and offered the same finger for tactile inspection. Fingers shorter than his own fingernails curled around his knuckle in a warm hello, large eyes framed by perfect lashes seemed to find him even if they could not yet see that far, and Severus Snape was lost. He'd fallen in love for the third time in his life, and couldn't fathom how a heart he'd long thought dead could be so full and hot and alive. He didn't notice that the midwitches had left the little family to its private introduction.

"What shall we call her?"

He pivoted, startled, watching his daughter let out what seemed too large of a yawn for her miniature face and smack drowsily, unbothered by the sudden noise or movement, apparently completely content within his protection. Hermione was gazing at him, her green eyes tired but thrilled and tinged with amusement and expectation. "Time's come, Professor Snape. You were the one who wanted to 'mull over the possibilities' before choosing a name—well, the possibilities seem to have arrived, and they seem to be decidedly feminine. So what have you got?"

He looked between his wife and his child for a moment, then half-smiled for their eyes only; he carried the infant to her mother's side, and with a gentleness that very few on Earth would believe of him, settled on to the edge of the bed to give all three access to one another. "I… I don't know," he admitted softly, a little sheepish. "I've given it some thought, of course, but I…"

She leaned sideways, hiding a wince at the movement of sore muscles, and murmured, "It didn't feel real until now." He met her knowing gaze and nodded slightly. "I sort of know what you mean."

They both took a moment to study the now-sleeping face of their child, watching her perfect lips move as if she was whispering to herself in her dreams. Severus felt something and glanced up to find that Hermione was now studying him. "You decide," he said with uncharacteristic impulsiveness, trusting her not to stick their child with something horrid like Eunice or Gertrude. When she raised an eyebrow at him, he quirked one of his own right back at her. "You heard me, Professer Granger. I'm setting you the assignment of naming our child."

She thought for a few moments, watching as their daughter smacked and burbled and made those unbearably cute popping sounds so common to newborns; when she landed on an idea, she found that she couldn't let go of it no matter how it wasn't going to fly with her husband—it just *felt* right.

Hermione took a deep breath. "Genuine." When he looked at her in confusion, she raised her chin and plunged on. "Genuine Joy Snape. For her father." She was more than a little surprised when, after a moment, a slow smile spread across her beloved's face, and the potions professor nodded in approval. She decided to wing it from there. "Of course, when we're with others, we can call her… Gwen, perhaps, to avoid confusion, or something else if you like; they can think what they will about what it's short for, but when it's just the three of us, at home, she can be our little Genny."

Her husband toed off his shoes and settled his bulk next to her, a reassuring warmth against her side and then around her as he freed one arm to encircle her while the other still cradled their baby. "Well, hello, there, Miss Genuine Joy Snape. We've been rather… ready to meet you at last." His deep voice, so softened with affection, warmed his wife even more, and she gingerly turned and snuggled against him, her eyes drifting closed as she rubbed one of the baby's little fists.

He thought she was asleep until she spoke again. "Wouldn't it just be starkers if she wound up being a Hufflepuff?"

Snape looked down at her, trying for a customary stern sneer and not quite getting there. "Bite your tongue!"

Without opening her eyes or moving from her comfortable little nest, Hermione giggled softly. "You already did. As I recall, that's what got us here."

He couldn't hold out long before he quietly snickered. He wondered at himself—he hadn't laughed as much in decades as he'd laughed today. He didn't think anyone should start counting on a 'new and fuzzy Snape,' but as much as he'd never admit it, he was kind of… enjoying it.

He leaned down to the side, intending to drop a kiss on the sweat-lanked crown of his wife's head, but as usual, she seemed so in tune with him, she seemed to *know*-and so she turned her face up to meet his, eyes never opening but timing impeccable, and their lips angled toward each other, intending the sweet kiss of love heightened—

And then the baby sneezed. And then she cried out, for the first time, a sound remarkably like, "Ewww!"

And so the lovers, her light to his dark, her heat to his cold, the two who had joined themselves to become one and then to create one, got their first taste of what it meant to have both of them in a single package—her timing and his attitude.

Granger groaned. Snape laughed.

The world whimpered.


End file.
